a confusing sort of an experience. He began to wonder, at
last, whether or not it were possible that he could be somebody else
without knowing it; and if it were, in whom, precisely, his identity
was vested. Being but a simple-minded young fellow, with no taste
whatever for metaphysics, this line of thought was upsetting.

While involved in these perplexing doubts and the crowd at the Fifth
Avenue crossing, he was so careless as to step upon the heel of a lady
in front of him. And when the lady turned, half angrily, half to
receive his profuse apologies, he beheld Mademoiselle Carthame. The
face of this young person wore an expression made up of not less than
three conflicting emotions: of resentment of the assault upon the heel
of her one pair of good shoes, of friendly recognition of the familiar
voice, of blank surprise upon perceiving that this voice came from the
lips of a total stranger. She looked searchingly upon the smoked
glasses, obviously trying to pry into the secret of the hidden eyes.
Jaune's blood rushed up into his face, and he realized that detection
was imminent. Mercifully, at that moment the crowd opened, and with a
bow that hid his face behind his hat he made good his retreat. During
the remaining half hour of his walk, he thought no more of metaphysics.
The horrid danger of physical discovery from which he had escaped so
narrowly filled him with a shuddering alarm. Nor could he banish from
his mind the harrowing thought that perhaps, for all his gray hair and
painted wrinkles and fine clothes, Rose in truth had recognized him.

That night an irresistible attraction drew him to the Carthame abode.
In the little parlor he found the severe Madame Carthame, her adorable
daughter, and the offensive Count Siccatif de Courtray. Greatly to his
relief, his reception was in the usual form: Madame Carthame conducted
herself after the fashion of a well-bred iceberg; Rose endeavored to
mitigate the severity of her parent's demeanor by her own affability;
the Count, as much as possible, ignored his presence. Jaune could not
repress a sigh of relief. She had not recognized him.

But his evening was one of trial. With much vivacity, Rose entertained
the little company with an account of her romantic adventure with the
French nobleman who had come to America in quest of his lost daughter;
for she had read the newspaper story, and had identified its hero with
the assailant of her heel. She dwelt with enthusiasm up